Comes the Night (Entangled Suspense)

by Cathy Marlowe

  Finally, she climbed into their bed and lay there, trying to capture the feeling of other nights—nights spent making love or cuddled together, whispering their hopes and dreams for their children. She tried to lose her fear in the joy of those moments and failed, finally falling asleep to the terrified pounding of her heart.

  Zach and Daniel had been missing for over twenty-four hours.

  …

  Early the next morning as Sam slept peacefully, there was a knock at the front door. Kyle left the group. He returned with a letter that had arrived by special messenger, leaving Cole and an officer to interview the deliverer. He held the envelope gingerly by the corner while Lizzie slipped on gloves.

  It took her three attempts to tear open the flap. She stared at the missive, color draining from her face. Again, grabbing just the corner, Kyle tugged the paper from her trembling fingers and read aloud.

  Dear Lizzie,

  Daniel and I had to leave. There are things in my past that made it impossible to stay, although I would have liked to remain with you. I can’t explain, but I had no choice.

  Be happy, as you deserve to be. Kiss Sam for me. I will take the very best care of Daniel.

  I’m sorry.

  Zach

  The room erupted in chaos.

  “Lizzie.” Kyle carefully set the letter on the table, then wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders.

  “I don’t know what Zach…” He cursed under his breath. “This just doesn’t make sense, but…” When Lizzie looked up at him, he tugged gently on the hair at her nape and promised, “We’ll find them. We will find them. Zach…”

  “And we’ll make sure we keep Sam safe.” Grant left his place near the window to join them, his face pale. “And we’ll find your son.”

  Attempting a smile, she nodded, appreciating his support although her mind remained focused on the letter. Kyle was right. It didn’t make sense.

  “Thank God, Sam was with me,” Grant continued. “Damn it, Zach…”

  “Enough.” Kyle elbowed Grant with his free arm and glared.

  Lizzie ignored their exchange, instead raising tear-filled eyes to Sophie and nodding when the elderly woman spoke. It was only one word, but the word brought color back to Lizzie’s face.

  “Rubbish.”

  …

  Raising the spoon to his mouth, he took a cautious bite of green Jell-O. He was pretty sure he hated Jell-O. The eggs had been runny, the toast dry, and the coffee, well, it didn’t bear describing. He was certain he preferred a more sophisticated brew.

  They’d told him his name was Thomas and he was in come kind of clinic, but didn’t know why. He’d learned when he tried to get out of bed that he was unsteady on his feet. No one offered information, and he didn’t ask. He simply sat and observed, maintaining the only kind of control at his disposal, searching his inexplicably blank mind for…something, anything.

  Dr. Bridges, an older man with a ponytail and friendly smile, had explained that he had psychogenic amnesia. He could remember nothing about his life before his accident, but did remember things that had happened since he awoke. And he knew impersonal facts, but nothing autobiographical. He knew what Jell-O was. And he had feelings about things. Like he was used to good coffee for breakfast.

  That knowledge got him exactly nowhere.

  He wanted to question the doctor further, but no one knew when Dr. Bridges planned to return. As if he’d sensed Thomas’s frustration, the doctor had grasped his hand and apologized, a regretful smile on his elfin face as Thomas assured him it wasn’t his fault.

  The man had simply stared with a troubled expression, then, apparently shaking off whatever bothered him, he’d left the room with a farewell wave.

  The door to the room burst open and he forgot all about the doctor as an older man strode toward the bed, a smile on his face, welcome radiating from his green eyes. “Thomas, my son,” the stranger exclaimed in a booming voice, “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  His father had arrived. He should have felt relief, but, instead, as the door slowly closed, he heard a child crying down the hall. For reasons he couldn’t explain, the sound haunted him.

  Chapter Six

  By the evening of the third day, when Zach and Daniel had been missing for over forty-eight hours, Lizzie couldn’t stand being in the house any longer. Handwriting analysis indicated that Zach had indeed written the letter, and although Lizzie insisted it must have been forged or written under duress, she knew the police now suspected he’d left willingly with the baby.

  Because late that afternoon Kyle, as second-in-command at Weston Security, had been notified that $1 million was missing from the company accounts. The firm had been successful beyond Zach and Lizzie’s dreams, creating a good life for their growing family. Now two-thirds of their cash reserves had disappeared along with Zach and Daniel.

  The police were working with WIC, the Westchester Intelligence Center. The group of highly technical specialists working out of White Plains had found nothing. No cell phone records, no credit card use, no plane tickets. There’d been no sign of Zach’s car. They’d flagged Zach’s passport.

  Nothing.

  Lizzie sat alone in their bedroom, looking at pictures of her family as she pumped breast milk. A box of tissues sat close by. She’d continued to pump on schedule in preparation for Daniel and Zach’s return, the small act both comforting and heartbreaking. In these moments she missed them so badly she thought she might die from it.

  Wiping the last tears from her face, she put the pump away and took the milk to the freezer. Then she joined Sam in the playroom, where she found her daughter lying on her stomach, knees bent, feet kicking idly in the air, and looking at her favorite book, a story about a princess who saves the day. Only she wasn’t reading the book. She was staring at the inscription.

  For Sarah Ann, my princess. Love, Daddy. Sarah Ann Marko, who’d convinced them to call her by the nickname S.A.M. when she was just two, spent hours acting out the story with Zach. He would never leave her.

  Lizzie knelt in front of her. “Sarah Ann, sweetie, let’s go for a walk.”

  After bundling in their winter coats, they strolled across the yard with Cole and Reade following a discreet distance behind. Sam scooped handfuls of the sparkling white snow and tossed them into the air and Lizzie paused to take in the snow-laden branches. When did the snow fall? The first snowfall was a major event in their family, and she hadn’t even noticed its arrival. They followed the little path until they came to Lizzie’s Lake.

  Too big for a pond, but too small for a lake, Zach had christened it Lizzie’s Lake, saying it was beautiful like her. She’d laughed and accused him of trying to win her support for his hockey plans by whatever means necessary. Her lips curved in wistful memory of how he’d protested his innocence and then unveiled a sketch of his plans for a small heated shed near the lake’s shore to house ice skates, sleds, and miscellaneous hockey gear. She’d laughed, telling him it would be at least a couple of years before their children were ready for the ice. Zach had pulled her into his arms and told her that as soon as the lake would safely hold their weight, he’d be taking her out on the ice.

  On the ice! She was a sun and sand girl, despite being raised in New York. She’d protested, but he was persuasive. “Don’t think of it as skating, Lizzie Lou,” he’d whispered in his sexy voice. “We’ll be dancing across the ice.” She’d looked into his eyes and known what he was really saying…it would be yet another way of making love, and she’d sighed, admitting to herself that one day she’d be on the ice with her husband. In that uncanny way he had of understanding what was in her heart, he’d read her response in her face, rewarding her with his gorgeous smile. Then he’d kissed her.

  Lizzie knelt in the snow next to Sam and pulled the little girl into her arms as silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

  …

  Thomas finished his breakfast, a savory omelet, crispy bacon, fresh squeezed orange juice, and best
of all, no Jell-O. A delicious meal, yet he had little appetite.

  He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the man who called himself his father, but he appreciated the improvement in the food since the older man arrived. Also, having learned that his full name was Alistair Thomas Forrester Jr., he was thankful to be called Thomas and not Alistair Jr. or A.J. or—he cringed just thinking about it—Junior.

  Pushing the food tray aside, he picked up a paper cup containing two small pills and washed the medicine down. A dull pain in his temples let him know he’d waited too long to take them. He hated taking any kind of drug. A humorless laugh escaped his lips. How could he know this and yet not know anything important about himself?

  He leaned back in the hospital bed and closed his eyes. He had no knowledge or understanding of what had happened, who he was, or his place in life. He was at the mercy of others, and the need to manage his own life, make his own decisions—even over something as mundane as his breakfast—gnawed at him. It bothered him enormously that the stranger who was his father was in control of his life, and maybe it made him a terrible son, but he could summon no emotion, no loyalty for his father.

  Lying in the quiet room, all he could think about was getting the hell out of this place.

  With a sigh, he looked around for anything that might reveal information about his identity. He thought he was in pretty good shape, could feel his leashed strength. But he had no idea what he looked like.

  A small mirror sat on the bedside table, left there earlier by a gum-snapping nurse.

  He reached for it, hesitated, then peered cautiously into the mirror. Suspicious green eyes stared back.

  His resemblance to the old man was striking.

  He had short medium-brown hair. A slight tan line along his forehead indicated a recent haircut. His eyes were dark green and fringed with stubby black lashes. He frowned. He didn’t know why, but he felt the eyes were too memorable. An ironic reaction, given his circumstances.

  Looking more closely at his nose, he realized a slight bump marred its line, indicating it had been broken at one time. Raising his free hand, he traced a small scar that ran from the edge of his right eye almost to his hairline. He wondered if he’d been in a fight or an accident. He felt a brief twinge of remembered pain.

  “Chicks dig scars.”

  He frowned. Whose voice did he hear in the cavernous recesses of his memory?

  He stared into the mirror for a long moment and then curved his lips in a mockery of a smile. Ah hell, he had a dimple. He frowned at his gut reaction. Apparently, he disliked both green Jell-O and dimples.

  Tired of examining his features and weary of thoughts that circled round and round, solving nothing, he lay back down and pretended to sleep. It surprised him how strongly he disliked the fact that he resembled his father.

  The hair wasn’t exactly the same color, but it was close. They both had square jaws, but where Alistair’s face was distinguished with perfect features and an aura of aristocracy, Thomas’s face had a rugged cast. Their eyes, however, were distinctive and identical.

  When he heard the door open, he kept his eyes closed, his face blank. “Thomas, my boy.” His father’s voice grated on his nerves. If he had been sleeping, dear old dad would have woken him without a second thought. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Opening his eyes, he froze and then sat up in the bed, never taking his eyes off the sight before him. His father held a baby in his arms.

  “This, Thomas, is your son.”

  He felt a sharp pain in his chest and sucked in a sharp breath as all sounds in the room faded into oppressive silence. He had a son?

  The child began to fuss, his whimpering quickly turning into a full-throated cry. The same cry he’d heard down the hall. His son had been crying for…how long? Two days that he could remember. How many days had it been before he regained consciousness? Somehow, he was certain Alistair hadn’t comforted the baby. He stared at the child and then held out his arms. “I’d like to hold him.”

  Alistair handed him the squalling infant. He cradled the small boy in his arms, quieting him immediately. The baby looked at him with curious green eyes and smiled. He had a dimple. Tears filled Thomas’s eyes and his heart felt heavy in his chest.

  For the first time since he’d woken up, something felt right.

  The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted the reunion. He tore his eyes from his son to see Alistair pull his phone from his pocket and glance at the screen.

  “I’ll be back,” he barked as he exited the room, leaving Thomas alone with…dear God, he didn’t even know his son’s name. Didn’t know his name or where his mother was, if he sucked his thumb or a pacifier, or who’d cared for him over the past two days.

  “Hel-lo, son,” he whispered. He tried again. “Hello, son. It’s me, your dad.”

  The little boy clasped his finger, holding tight. Thomas placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, breathing deeply of his baby smell. “I love you.” The words flowed freely, as though he’d said them often in his other life, a life he now desperately wanted to remember for entirely different reasons.

  A life he wanted to remember not just with his head, but with his heart.

  He wasn’t sure how much time passed before his father returned. He only knew the peaceful time with his son was disrupted before he was ready.

  Masking his anger and keeping his voice calm, he said, “I’ve been here for two days—at least two days that I remember. Why is this the first time you’ve mentioned that I have a son? Who’s been taking care of him?” He frowned. “Where is his mother?”

  “Thomas, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone with me.” The old man peered at him disapprovingly. “We were attempting to manage your unfortunate mental state. The doctor felt it best not to overwhelm you with information.”

  Pulling his gaze from his infant son, Thomas stared at his father. He refused to acknowledge the reprimand.

  “His mother is dead. She died in an accident shortly after he was born.”

  Color drained from his face. “My wife is dead?”

  “Heavens, no!” Alistair snorted. “You weren’t married to the boy’s mother. She was some tramp you slept with. Don’t worry, though, DNA tests assure us the boy is yours.”

  Thomas gathered the baby closer to his chest and asked, “How old is he?”

  “Almost five months old.” Alistair thumbed through information on his phone.

  “Five months? He seems small…” His words drifted off. He knew the baby was small, but didn’t know how he knew.

  “Yes, well, he was born early.” Alistair scowled and slipped the phone into his pocket. “It was his mother’s fault, but he’s a strong boy. Thankfully there appear to be no permanent complications.”

  It was all too much to take in. Thomas focused on the most important thing, his son. “What’s his name?”

  “Alistair Thomas Forrester III. We call him Alistair, after me, his grandfather.” The old man beamed with pride as he patted himself on the chest.

  Thomas felt something churn inside him.

  …

  The police left the Weston home on the third morning after Zach and Daniel disappeared. The WIC investigation had revealed nothing. The letter, the missing funds—both indicated Zach had left willingly. The fact that he hadn’t taken all of the cash reserves, but left enough to ensure the company’s ongoing operation, further suggested he’d left of his own volition, taking funds to start a new life, but leaving enough to safeguard his remaining family. The missing persons investigation remained open, but the case was no longer treated as a likely kidnapping.

  The authorities dismissed Lizzie’s argument that Zach had been sending a message when he left the lamb playing merrily in the crib. They refused to understand that Zach would never willingly leave the goalie bear behind.

  Not only were the resources dedicated to finding Zach and Daniel lessened, but she was certain those resources were looking in the wrong places.r />
  After asking everyone to leave so she could be alone to think, she put Sam down for a morning nap and curled up alone on the couch, wrapped in her husband’s jacket. She’d dreamed of them last night, heard Zach’s voice calling for her, and woken up weeping to the sound of Daniel’s cry. They needed her, and she would not let them down.

  She just didn’t know where to start.

  The doorbell rang, and her heart raced as she hurried to open it. The deliveryman handed her a telegram.

  She stared at the succinct message.

  Sisters of Mercy. Atlanta, Georgia.

  Chapter Seven

  The police placed the telegram in the queue with the myriad other tips they’d received, warning her that it was likely the work of a prankster who followed the news and wanted to be part of the excitement. Well, to hell with law enforcement. She’d follow this clue herself—she was going crazy just waiting. She needed to act.

  After forwarding their home number to her mobile phone, Lizzie dropped Sam at afternoon preschool. Reluctantly admitting that she was in danger of smothering her daughter with her need to keep her close, she’d already planned to take Sam to school today. She spoke with school security and they promised to keep a close eye on Sam until Grant picked her up.

  Feeling energized for the first time in days, she sped through the sky on the Weston company jet, headed for Atlanta. Cole had offered to accompany her, but she’d assured him she had a former marine, one of their contract workers, for her pilot. Plus, with a can of pepper spray and her kick-butt hiking boots, no one, no one, was going to get the best of her family.

  As the jet gained altitude, she suppressed the niggling worry that she shouldn’t have come without more support. But Zach’s men were all out chasing down leads, which one by one turned out dead ends. Kyle was drowning in work at the firm. The loss of $1 million had thrown expansion plans into disarray. If she’d called him, she knew he would have come with her, but someone needed to look out for their interests at work. Kyle was Zach’s right-hand man.